Unbelonging
by Crystal Spinning
Summary: AU. They had all battled: but what was victory, and what was loss, in a world where none of them belonged?
1. Jill

Jill did not belong in this world.

This strange unbelonging followed her as she moved from bed to window, staring outside. The sickly rotten odor of death crept in, haunting her. She counted the faces of people she had once known.

As if they could smell her vitality, her life, the creatures moaned in unison, gathering at the door. Creaking, the old wood wouldn't hold out against many more of the undead.

An odd sense of nostalgia welled within her. Quickly, methodically, she cleaned. Unsure of why she was doing this, she tried to stop. But it was unbearable. Soon the lemon scent filled her house, attempting weakly to mask the thick stench just outside the thin walls.

Prayers meant nothing now. Action meant nothing now. This was life or death, once more. She was outnumbered, once more. Yet this wasn't the same terrible July night where things had gone so terribly wrong. Her city, her home, lost to the infection of death.

It was painful not to cry, but tears did not solve her problem. She stopped crying hours ago, when the tenth one had arrived at her door.

All of them had names. Cindy from the grocery store, teenaged and pierced. Hannah from the pizzeria, bloated with a mutated pregnancy that ate a hole through her body. Rick from the bank, missing a portion of his brain, the hair still attached to the loosely swinging skin. Young, old, it didn't matter.

Infection did not discriminate.

She shook with fear, trying to breathe in the clean, filter out the filth. Nothing worked. The utter, heartrending loneliness did not help her control her fear.

Stupidly enough, Jill had next to no ammunition. She had a single handgun which she kept at home for burglars, never dreaming that she'd need a million magazines. Six bullets. That was all that lay within the carefully wrapped up, tucked away handgun. Not nearly enough.

The mansion incident had been deadly, scarring. Traumatized, all the survivors insisted on telling their story, to the point where STARS had been dissolved and all members publicly ridiculed and tried for insanity. None of them had been believed, even by their closest friends. Chris had disappeared, Barry had moved from town, and Rebecca had likely lost her life hours ago, at the hands and teeth of the infected. But they all had believed it was over with the destruction of the mansion and Albert Wesker.

They were wrong.

Especially Jill. Vigilantly, she had watched both the RPD and the Umbrella Corporation, devouring newspapers and researching the matter herself. Wasted time, all of it.

Because now she was going to die.

It had all been for nothing: her entire life had been meaningless. Her survival at the hands of Wesker, the foes she battled within the confines of the labyrinth-mansion, they were pointless accomplishments.

The mirror gave her insight to how she must appear to others. Beautiful, tired, sad. Jill was a creature that thrived in adversity, who continued to battle on after all the fights had been lost, after anyone else would've given up.

But the circles beneath her cerulean eyes attested to her exhaustion. She was tired, bone tired. It was no longer worth it to try and face to those monsters who waited outside, who had been her friends and neighbors.

Pale and wan, she watched herself in the mirror. Who was Jill Valentine? An officer of the law? That wasn't her identity.

Funny that her midlife crisis was during her mid-twenties, at the end of her life.

Sunlight spilt from the windows, leaving shadows where the monsters blocked the light. Jill had just cleaned the windows two days ago. Now blood spattered and smeared against the sharp, shining glass.

Slowly, she meandered through the house, remembering. The yellow kitchen with the hideously ugly faux-marble countertops, where Chris and Forrest had gotten disgustingly drunk and thrown up. Her bedroom, where she had let the two sleep, taking off their vomit-speckled shirts, letting them wake up the next morning with yelps of hung-over panic. Her bathroom, where Claire Redfield had gotten her first period at fifteen and cried, too embarrassed to tell her brother. In the room she kept her washing machine and dryer, the STARS team had hidden Barry's dog in her empty dryer, terrifying her with the furious barks coming from her supposedly 'off' machine.

Smiling at the memory, she stopped at her living room, where the front door was.

This memory made her frown.

Once, when her car had broken down, Albert Wesker had driven her home and kissed her in the fading sunlight. She had felt him smile when their lips touched. Instinctively, she had wanted more, known that there was a motive to his actions, that there was something he wanted. But right when she was perfectly amenable to inviting him inside, he had departed. Simply left without a goodbye, or even acknowledgement. The memory made her burn with shame.

Neither had ever brought it up again. Then, when she discovered his betrayal, she had weakened at the knees, her sense of honesty and justice dirtied by his mouth and lingering tongue.

Rage flickered within her, only to be defeated by the sight of a monster bashing at her window. Jill was deflated.

Righteousness had no place in purgatory. Her home, her sanctuary, was purgatory, her waiting room. The great outdoors, the concrete jungle of Raccoon was hell. And heaven?

Where was heaven?

Faith had never been part of Jill's life. Sternly atheist, she had never even given a thought to the afterlife. But now, in the sharp sunlight streaming through the windows like a serrated knife, she could think of nothing else.

It was her only option, to be sure. A quick and painless death was far preferable to being slowly devoured, to being turned into one of the insatiable undead, remaining in a half-life limbo until mercy came for her.

But mercy would never come, not while she was in limbo. She had to choose, and quickly. Her door strained against the rotten collection of zombies.

She didn't know, couldn't have known that mercy was flying as fast as she could to her rescue, bringing with her salvation. And mercy couldn't have known, never would've dreamed that Jill Valentine had given up hope.

Rebecca Chambers brought with her an arsenal, and more than enough ammo to destroy each creature crowding about Jill's silent home. But when she made it inside, she saw the blood littering the floor, blood that had been spilt by its owners own hand.

Suicide had been Jill's heaven, her haven, her choice. Swiftly and before self-doubt had overtaken her, Jill carefully unwrapped her little handgun and with shaking hands, held it to her temple.

Jill never heard the shot that killed her, never felt the powerful kick of the trigger that dislocated her pale, bloodless wrist.

Rebecca came late enough that her friend's blood had congealed across her once beautiful face, late enough that Jill Valentine, who never stopped trying, had weighed her options as systematically as possible and chosen what she believed to be the wisest course.

Rebecca gaped at the mess of her friend and did not cry. She had tried to come for Jill, and she had almost made it.

The medic turned away sadly, feeling hollow. A few zombies stirred, but she ignored them. Little Rebecca Chambers, rookie officer of STARS Bravo Team, was not going to weigh her options and scare herself.

There are two ways to overcome a hurdle: to leap over them, or to plow through them. Or in Rebecca's case, use the magnum to splinter it apart. A loose plan began to formulate in her mind, gathering ideas that would make her missing teammates proud. Reloading all her weapons and climbing into her car, she hoped that no roads were blocked. Because plowing through wasn't the plan.

Driving past the staggering bodies, Rebecca shoved down her fear. Part of the charm of Raccoon had been its ability to make anyone feel welcome. But now, a sense of unbelonging overcame her, a sad, lonely façade that tried to wedge its way through her mind and disrupt her plan.

She drove on, refusing to count the faces of her friends, of family members, of neighbors and acquaintances. Remembering was weakness, and forgetting was salvation. Her world was broken, but not her determination. Holding her together was her faith in justice, her faith in the world. Since nobody else was around to do it, Rebecca would save herself.

As tightly as she clenched her jaw, though, she couldn't hold back the tears muddying her vision. A few dripped from her lashes, puddling on the swell of her cheeks. Sniffing loudly, she told herself she couldn't cry. It wasn't safe here. But slowly, she stopped accelerating until she had stopped in the middle of the abandoned streets. Nothing was here except for a few wandering monsters. Completely alone, she tried to pull herself together until she shattered. Crying for a few minutes, she wiped her tears away and willed herself to be strong. Decisively, she put in a cassette, cranking the music. She didn't care if she drew attention to herself.

Rebecca was going to escape, even if it meant she had to do it alone.


	2. Chris

Chris Redfield had been disarmed.

Driven by emotion, Chris was ruled by impulse, controlled by instinct.

Now his sinew lay shackled, skin torn by rusty irons, captive in a jail, tortured by the knowledge of his own stupidity.

He should've stayed.

The dark cell was really more of a chamber: a dungeon that had once been a castle. Fallen into disrepair, the scenic, has-been luxury transformed into dank prison.

He should've stayed.

It had been the girl who disarmed him.

High heels, short hair, wide eyes, red shirt. Just a kid, a small one at that. Chris had paused in his tracks, unable to barrel past her.

She reminded him of Rebecca, of Claire. A child.

Chris hadn't even stopped running when her bullet landed in his foot.

Swearing venomously at the painfully infected wound, Chris wondered when they'd let him die.

He did not belong here. Chris Redfield was a man of honor, a man who carried out the law to evil-doers, who doled out justice dutifully. Instead of ending a battle, he'd carelessly thrown away his life, ending his own story.

As a kid, Chris had always dreamt of becoming a superhero, of saving the damsel, of being praised and loved.

As an adult, Chris had his life saved by his small partner in a mansion filled with drooling, bloody monsters, infected undead, and traitors, despised and called a liar and deranged menace by those in Raccoon, and his family far away.

Without anything to lose, Chris decided to travel, wishing to discover what he could about the dreaded conspiracy that STARS had uncovered in the Arklay. Europe would be the place to start: Umbrella's headquarters was stationed in Paris.

Chris bought a crappy, dog-eared French-to-English dictionary and got on the next flight, packing only his weapons, exercising his right as a man of the law to bring firearms on a plane. He'd been so pompous, so righteous, so filled with turbulent, inexpressible rage. Leaving behind Jill, Rebecca, and Brad, telling only Barry of his intended whereabouts, Chris forged on, determined, reckless, and stupid. He didn't need their help. Not Jill's rescuing, not Rebecca's nervous doctoring, not Brad's false bravado or Barry's concern.

A month later, he still cursed his idiocy, as his foot throbbed and his ankles bled, his wrists and elbows welled up as a constant stream of injections flew through his system.

Twice a day, Chris was shoved upwards into a painful standing position and pissed into a cup. Usually, the fluid in the cup was a murky red, discolored and dark from dehydration. Where he had once been lean and muscular, his build had deteriorated into a weak, bony frame, dominated by sagging, sallow skin.

He'd fallen so far.

He did not belong.

If his liquid was relatively clear, Chris was given a hunk of bread, and when he was lucky, stringy, molding cheese. They gave him bottles of water: Aquafina. The refined scientists did not use tap water on their pets.

That's all Chris Redfield was now. A pet. An experiment. A piece of shit, stranded in God knew where, longing for his team, for his family, for a blanket.

During childhood, Chris always slept with a teddy bear. He'd disdainfully thrown the ratty brown animal into the closet during his teendom, scornful of childhood. Then, when he turned eighteen and decided to join the Airforce, he'd begun cleaning his closet, and discovering the dusty, stiff bear.

Chris fucking missed his teddy bear, for chrissake. He was beyond repair, a broken man.

Sometimes he suffered panic attacks, so massive that he'd black out. The white coats usually kicked him awake when it was time for one of his daily pissing sessions, but it was rest his aging body needed. Once a young man, Chris felt he had aged two score years. Distended, sagging, and slow, his body felt awkward and ancient. His spine creaked when he moved: his heart thumped rapidly at the slightest provocation.

It wasn't until his chains became too tight that he noticed. Chris's skin had begun to meld with the metal, the sallow yellow morphing into a dull shade of purple. The meager rations became disgusting, inedible. What he desired above anything was a steak. Steaming hot and rare, he craved the meat, the protein, the juice.

It wasn't until the white lab coats floated in that Chris noticed. The miniscule men seemed half their previous heights, pale and weak. They began to examine him, and when one reached for Chris' irritated foot, he burst into a manic rage, a frustrated berserk. The once impossibly strong barriers, the chains forged to his ankles burst into dust.

Chris was furious with them, so they were the first to die. It was almost like artwork, red and abstract and splattered across the dark dankness. Their dying gurgles sounded like music to him.

The numbness of murder did not come. His sorrow was not there. He did not feel sorry for killing those men. He wanted to serve justice, to save the world, and these white-coats-stained-red had stood in his path.

Now they lay beneath his feet.

A feeling of supremacy washed over him, of success. It was almost unbelievable that he had so easily escaped their grasp.

Yet he wasn't finished his in his fury. He felt unsatisfied by their deaths. He wanted more.

Chris strode past translucent, shining windows, not noticing his reflection. He was preoccupied in his anger, in his helpless pain and confusion. He was filled with fury.

He wanted to be the hero. Heroes were not supposed to be rescued: they rescued themselves, saved others, were adored by all except the villains. Jill was not supposed to rescue him: Rebecca was not supposed to heal him: Brad, little chickenshit Brad wasn't supposed to be his getaway ticket: Barry wasn't supposed to worry about him as if he were some sort of child. Masculinity was Chris's greatest flaw, his most powerful feature, his most charismatic characteristic. He'd show them. Revenge would be sweet, or at least, he'd prove to them that he was worth something, that he could defeat the rogues and save the ladies.

The entire team would learn that he didn't need help. Classing himself above them was not wrong. He did not belong with _them_.

He could prove it to them all, prove his superiority, his heroic strength and power.

The tide of anger and bitterness overcame him, and in an uncontrollable bellow, he let loose all the emotions swimming within him.

"STARS!"


	3. Rebecca

Rebecca Chambers wheeled through the town slowly, her car running low on gasoline. The road was paved with the dead, and she was completely alone. Keeping her windows halfway down to allow herself safety and optimum range ability for her gun, and ears, she scanned the intersection. Her ammo was next to her, like a safety blanket. There had been no time to do anything but prepare for the worst. This would not be a reenactment of the Arklay. Never again would she hide beneath the protection of others. It was her turn to defend the weak. Yet the only weak one left alive was her.

Despite her determination, the streets were barren of survivors. A few zombies littered about, but Rebecca was not afraid of them any longer. The creatures were nothing compared to her. Although they were the monsters, she was the Angel of Death, a superior being. Infection hadn't destroyed her like it had for others. She was stronger than before, more determined. The ruins of a dead city, the place she'd grown up, did not haunt her. Notions of escape did.

Driving slowly about, her fingers splayed against the wheel, ready to grab the gun on her lap, she eyed every open street. There hadn't been time for quarantine. One night, everyone had gone to bed. Most of them didn't wake up.

There hadn't been any time for grief. It amazed her that she'd even been able to fall asleep – and stay asleep – for so long. Waking up at nearly midday, she'd rushed to the first person she could possibly hope was still alive. Jill.

Instead, she'd found the mess of her friend, newly broken.

Tapping her fingers lightly on the wheel, she squinted. Light dazzled her through dirty windows. Sunglasses had not been on her mind when she escaped. A light bump hit her car, and she drove ahead, not even bothering to look back at the pitiful, dripping creature she'd once called foe. Habitually, she turned on the radio, her fingers moving of their own accord. A muted song droned, almost, but not quite, too low for even her to hear. Oasis.

Unfortunately, the name did not reflect her luck.

The song lifted her spirits slightly, and despite the living hell thriving about her, she hummed. In the midst of her worst nightmare, Rebecca sang. Tears sprang to her eyes as she sang along, matching every word, her thin little voice keeping in tune the best it could.

Rage filled her. None of these people could ever sing again. They weren't just monsters. They'd been people she nodded too on the streets, ordered pizza from, bumped into at the department store.

The car seemed to park itself at the RPD, and that is where Rebecca sobbed, her small frame wracked with a sorrow so impossibly large, so much larger than her slender shoulders could bear. An eternity was spent within the safe walls of the police department, her windows rolled up, the radio playing cheerily, unnoticed by the driver. Unbelonging overtook her, loneliness she could not fight. Almost unable to bear the weight on her chest, she wiped the tears away and drove from Raccoon City, away from the horrors, the tragedy of these thousands who would never again breathe clean air or listen to music or feel the warmth of friendship and love.

Following the speed-limit to an unconscious fault, she drove to freedom, endangered by her ignorance. For instead of fleeing, she watched the once scenic streets as she drove by, flying past the infected civilians, their flesh dripping as they reached for the car, in a gesture that would've once been friendly. Their eyes were dead, instead of lively, blank with the mask of death.

At a time like this, she should've been focused solely on the present. She should have kept on track, and made escape her only priority. But all that was on Rebecca's mind was how much she craved cheese. Sharp, chewy, stringy, creamy, mellow, aged. The very prospect of eating cheese tortured her harrowed mind, taunted her empty stomach, haunted her.

Perhaps it was a little silly. In a terror like this, such little luxuries should have been the farthest thing from her mind. Survival was the ultimate goal, and after crying in a parking lot, all she wanted was to eat her fill and wash it down with milk. Iced milk, with chocolate sauce. For dessert she'd eat ice cream.

The giddy thoughts were a little crazy, but just thinking them kept her sane. Dreaming of the future made her feel as though it were possible to be something more than a frightened, foolish little girl, in over her head. She felt professional, adult, capable of living like a regular person.

She might've made it. She _would've_ made it, if only she had not waited. If only the force of habit had not cut her short. When the bellow caused her to jolt and hit the break, rather than push her small feet against the pedal as hard as she could, Rebecca's fate was written.

"_STARS_!"

The scream resonated through her very bones. Her life did not flash before her eyes, like the movies so often claimed. The only thing Rebecca saw as her life ended was the dark, liquid, reptilian eyes that dissected her soul with the most intense hatred she had ever felt. The beast who had once been man threw Rebecca Chambers' lifeless body against the shattered, broken car, and turned away, lust for blood not yet sated.

In search of other offerings, Chris Redfield, the man who had protected her, left the unguarded, ravaged body of the girl who had once been Rebecca to be feasted upon by the monsters. The metallic, overpowering scent of blood called them, and he was not interested in her slow dismemberment at the hands of such inferior creatures. Destroyed, the car, still running, did not burst into a torch. Flames merely licked their way up the side of the car, roasting the shell of a girl resting atop it, as well as the rotted carcasses that so mindlessly clawed for flesh, alive or dead, raw or burnt.

And the great gears of fate continued to turn, as Claire Redfield's red ponytail swung cheerfully as she sped, helmetless, gunless, and unguarded to the burial ground that had once been her brother's home.

The muscular calves braced as she seemingly flew through the air, as the determined young girl inched ever-closer to the desolate acres that would serve as her unmarked grave. As October first inched ever closer, Claire Redfield fearlessly drove her motorcycle in eager, innocent search of the brother she had fretted over for weeks. Unaware and naïve, the young girl passed Raccoon's welcoming sign, the cheerful billboard a painful contrast to what awaited her within the bowels of the unending nightmare so neatly mapped out before her.

Her boots were clean and her skin was fresh, clean, warm. The big blue eyes were devoid of shadow, and as she drove to her death, all that was on her mind was giving her big brother a hug – and a good, long scolding, for making her worry.

Smiling at the very thought, she sped up, her face unimpeded by headwear. Nothing but goggles protected her young complexion, and the cool air felt sharp and cool against the hot skin, pressed up against her machine. Nothing but bright, happy visions of the future played in her mind's eye, as she bent her torso round a sharp turn. The entrance to Raccoon was right before her, and looking very much like a bright, tropical bird, she flitted into the wasteland that, had once-upon-a-time, held humanity and all the joy that went with it.


	4. Claire&Leon

Her death would've been painless if it were not distracted.

The slow, sickly people that staggered to her seemed as if they needed help – kind and empathetic Claire could not tear her heart from them, even if she needed to search for her brother. Disembarking from her motorbike, she did not understand the tempting picture she made for creatures who knew naught but hunger – slim, muscular legs on show, smooth and young, sweat running off her body, her tired, out of breath demeanor signaling nothing but food to these creatures who had once said hello to her older brother passing by on the street.

She wouldn't have understood anyway – Claire was a vegetarian, a pre-vet major, a young, innocent girl just shy of completing her first semester of college. Knives, firearms, self-defense… all of the things Chris had painstakingly taught her came easily to her, theoretically. Once, a boyfriend had taken her hunting, and the experience left her more sad and disgusted than anything else.

Needless to say, he had not remained her significant other after _that_ experience.

Red hair rippled in the firelight – places were already burning from the clumsiness of the undead, but all the nineteen-year-old saw was a disaster, and innocent people who were sick and helpless.

She ran to them.

The first one wrapped it's arms around her – a male, a few inches shorter than she and thirty pounds heavier. Uncomfortable, she tried to move from his cold, decaying grasp, gasping for fresh air, trying to get away from the ungodly stench. But then his teeth sunk into the soft, tanned and freckled skin on her neck.

In the skin he tore off was a mole that she had always hated, but Claire did not register anything but the madman chewing her flesh. She was in shock.

It was only natural that she went down easily – not because she wasn't Redfield enough, or smart enough, or brave enough. This was sheer unluckiness. If she had been given a brief respite to clear her mind, perhaps she would have survived. Instead, Claire Redfield went down quickly like the thousands before her, beginning from the first, anonymous passengers on the train months ago, to Lieutenant Billy Coen, torn to agonizing shreds by wild, infected dogs, to all the STARS members lost in the mansion.

Like Jill Valentine, like Rebecca Chambers, and like her own brother, the monstrosity rampaging the trashed streets of Raccoon.

Of course, Claire had no idea of any of this. She was simply a young girl who was too headstrong and worried about her absent brother for her own good. This bloody death would have been prevented if Chris Redfield had been less impetuous. Yet it was seemingly fate. Like brother, like sister. Their similarities were endless – and they both died with no vestiges of humanity left around them, lonely, afraid, and unknowing.

Most of all, unbelonging.

x

When Officer Leon Scott Kennedy found the ravaged body of Claire Redfield, no particular sentiment ran through him. To the newcomer, she was simply another victim. There were no could-have-beens in his mind, or any appreciation of her form in the way only a virile man could in such unbecoming situations. He simply tried to battle his way out and through the city, with little effect.

The nighttime air was wrought with death and decay and sulfur and flames. He managed to hole himself in a building, calm and rational as if this were a situation anyone could've foreseen and trained him to handle.

Bravely marching forward, his suit stained, he did not run. Shoulders squared, he peered out, surveying the ground from his safe little rooftop, and plunged.

It was not a death befitting a soldier. It was not a death anyone could've wished on their worst enemy. The land did not kill him, but the creatures lurking in the shadows did. He was not brave, and nor would it have been expected of him to not cry out. Tears flowed and he screamed until there would never be fresh air in his lungs again. For all of his grace, his idealism and excitement to begin his first day, Leon saw what was hopeless and accepted it, with what could be considered either wisdom or cowardice.

For he had gazed upon hell and known instinctively that his youth and love and happiness was not supposed to be here. Everything was wrong, it had all been… wrong.

His brain was not damaged, and if it were not for the forthcoming bomb that was to hit Raccoon, he would have become one of his killers. Finally, Leon would be a part of something great – and powerful and terrible – but at the cost of everything he had once held dear. His career, his idealism, and his very life.

There was nothing for him but blackness, and he had taken it gratefully.

However, one who was not going to take it quickly moved through the shadows, gunning down her enemies and nightmare monsters. She did not promise herself escape, or guarantee herself her next breath. But what she knew to be true was information she needed, because she was expendable, but this was vital.

She did not dutifully destroy the creatures, or put them out of their misery. She did not see the prostitute in high heels, or the drug addict whose body was too wasted to even move towards her flesh. She did not notice the enormous crashes of the monster that barreled through the street, decimating everything in its path.

Ada Wong did not grant peace to the wasteoids, but only took – a water bottle here, ammo there, a knife there. No guilt plagued her for ravaging and looting the homes of the hungry.

Unlike the man she had watched fall from a three story building, she would not take her own life.


End file.
